The summer before high school my family and I took our triplet (3-person) bicycle on an adventure through Prince Edward Island on the eastern seaboard of Canada. When the 9-day trip concluded, I jokingly mentioned to my dad that we should set our sights on a cross-country ride on our tandem bike. In the two years that followed the idea turned from a joke to reality as we planned, researched, and trained to peddle our way across the northern tier of the United States. Flying to Portland, OR from our suburban Boston hometown the day after my sophomore year finished final exams, the feeling encompassed me entirely that I was about to embark on the largest physical and likely emotional trip I'd ever taken. At the young age of 15 I would have the opportunity to see the world through different eyes than before, and would benefit immensely from the new point of view the 17 mile-per-hour speed of travel would expose me to.

Rear wheel dipped in the Pacific - Mile 0 - Lincoln City, OR

With the rear wheel dipped in the Pacific Ocean, we began our ride home to Massachusetts. Each morning we chose a route for the day, following along with paper maps and early versions of mapping software that my BlackBerry smartphones allowed for. We headed north through a lusciously green Oregon, losing color and vegetation as we approached the Columbia River and with it, the southern edge of Washington state. Riding along with busy trucking lanes we regularly saw components of windmills being transported along, wing blades measuring in at nearly 140 feet long towering past us at regulated speeds, exhaust from the trucks billowing into our faces as we cycled along. Passing through Walla-Walla and Waitsburg, we made our way into Lewiston, Idaho, taking Route 12 through the Indian reservations across the state. With no cell towers or much available for public services, our ride was quiet and relatively uninterrupted as we meandered along the gorgeously blue Clearwater River. Occasional motorcycle groups would extend us a low wave as they drove by, and our sleeping accommodations included small rustic cabins that were available for rent each night as we crossed the state.

Our tenth day cycling brought us over our first real mountain, Lolo Pass, towering 5,235 feet tall (quite the distance to have climbed, given the fact that we quite literally started at sea-level), we cursed our way up the shoulder of the steep two-lane road to the summit's visitor center, reading signs denoting Lewis & Clark's passing through this exact location some 202 years prior. Passing over into the Mountain Time Zone from Pacific, our journey continued into the mountainous mid-western part of the States. The journey through Montana would show us a totally different kind of countryside, with dry and open flatlands surrounded by jaggedly steep mountains miles away across the empty valleys. I was often reminded of the Forrest Gump in his cross country running, watching the sun rise over seemingly infinite expanses of land. Montana continued to impress us with landmarks like Chief Joseph's Pass, an area reminiscent of the famed Army/Indian battle that left thousands dead. We had an incredibly scary, near-death experience near-to the continental divide, exceeding speeds of 55 miles-per-hour downhill as a truck cut us off, sending the bike into a turbulent shimmy as we descended into the sleepy town of Ennis, MT. I had the date, 07.06.07, tattooed on my wrist as a reminder of the adventure, and how quickly things can go to shit.

"And then in the desert, when the sun comes up, I couldn't tell where heaven stopped and the earth began." ~ Forrest Gump

With a few more days of pedaling, Montana became Wyoming, with incredible colors saturating Yellowstone National Park, some high-peaked mountains to cross, and a continually interesting variety of people to cross paths with. We rode past the infamous Wall Drug as we entered into South Dakota, upping our mileage and speed easily due to both our leg muscle growth and some flat terrain that the plains provided us with. In Rapid City, SD, we stopped to seek medical treatment for swelling in my dad's legs, taking it easy with our riding until he was able to regain normal fluid levels. Riding into Minnesota, we visited friends in Minneapolis on the 16th of July, learning overnight that my maternal grandmother had passed away back in Western Massachusetts. In a long post on our cycling blog, I wrote that our ride was over; it was unquestionably our responsibility to return home, halfway across the United States, to be with my mom.

After a few days in Williamstown, MA, my dad and I began discussing when and if we'd ever be able to finish our adventure. We floated ideas about the following summer, trying over different school vacation weeks, or simply not finishing at all. Doing some research into different transportation methods we settled on the idea to take a Greyhound bus back to Minneapolis as soon as humanly possible. We packed the bike into a few cardboard boxes, haphazardly taped together in a way only my father could manage, we said our goodbyes to family, stowed it in the undercarriage of the first bus, and turned our sights back towards Minneapolis. The 36 hour ride took us through NYC's bus terminal, on to Pittsburg, overnight to Cleveland... we'd also visit Chicago and Milwaukee before finally arriving in St. Paul, MN. At the age of 15 I had the eye-opening experience of sitting at the back row of the bus, wedged between an obese man, the prostitute he had hired in New York, and the on board bathroom. I did my best to keep my head down and eyes on the pages of my book. We were exhausted when that journey came to an end, but reassembled the bike and continued our ride East.

We flew through Wisconsin without a hitch, experiencing our first day of rain on the entire journey, and spending the night at a B&B where our $50 cost literally bought us an entire house to utilize. A 94 mile day on July 27th brought us to Manitowoc, Wisconsin, where our tired bodies boarded an overnight ride on the S.S. Badger steam-fired ferry to cross Lake Michigan. Our sight-seeing continued across 250 miles of Michigan, eventually coming upon signs for Flint & Detroit, following our way to Port Huron. A quick phone call to we would pile into a Bridge Authority pick-up truck and be driven (by law) across the Blue Water Bridge to Ontario, Canada. We had decided very early on in the planning of the trip to traverse Canada instead of dipping low below Lake Eerie through Indiana and Pennsylvania. A few hundred miles across Ontario would bring us to Niagara falls where we would cross back into New York at the U.S. border.

Rolling hills of Upstate New York

In New York we visited with a handful of friends, taking a rest day on Lake Ontario with my dad's college friends. After ten days of riding back to back, taking a day off to zip around on their boat was exceptionally enjoyable and well deserved . We followed up with a 100-mile ride day and arrived in East Syracuse, NY in time for dinner and bed. In Utica, NY, some 2,400 miles into our journey, the day went from sunny and pleasant to an absolute mess when a rear drive gear on the bike went kaput. We peddled forward and found the bike going nowhere; the experience was disorienting and frustrating all at the same time. The owner of a local deli (quite literally across the street) heard our frustrations while serving us lunch, and piled us into his truck to take us to a local bike shop in the interest of getting our mode of transportation repaired. A stop at Sonne's Cycle & Fitness in the nearby town of East Hartford got us back on track, and with John's help we were on the road again just a few hours after the incident occured. We managed 72 miles that day, and pulled into Little Falls, NY without another hitch.

A day of torrential downpour was spent crossing from Schenectady, New York across a mountainous Route 2 over to Williamstown, MA, the same town where my grandmother had passed away a few weeks prior. Visiting with family, we celebrated being back in our home state. Each day became a countdown with mixed emotions, sadness that the ride would soon end, and excitement that we had accomplished such an incredible adventure together. It took us 3 relaxing days to cross our state, covering 177 miles in the process. The night before our ride ended, we stayed with good friends in Hamilton, MA just a few short miles from the Atlantic Ocean where our ride would conclude. The next morning we rode at a measured pace a mere 7 miles to West Beach in Beverly Farms where our front tire dipped into the Atlantic Ocean, more than 2,700 miles away from where we had left the Pacific behind us.

My dad and I bonded more than I ever could have imagined during our trip across America. We fought only over how many times each day was reasonable to stop and get ice cream, and shared more memories than I could ever rightfully recall. I cycled less in the years following our trip, but the bike stayed a staple part of our household as he and my mom took it out frequently for another decade before it found a new home via an interested buyer on eBay. It was sad to see it go, but flooded my mind with thoughts of the great times and incredible experiences I was exposed to at such an age. The trip opened my eyes to a larger part of the world, and planted the seed in my mind to seek out larger undertakings, take on bigger adventures, and always strive to tell one hell of a story. Our trip across the United States became the catalyst behind every other adventure that encompasses my mind, and that's a fact for which I'll always be indescribably grateful.